


haunt

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: jon sims v the nhs [3]
Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (I mean she is literally the best), Autistic Jon Sims, BAMF Joan, Gen, Guilt, Hugs, Ideation of Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Joan Bright is a sectioned therapist, Joan Bright really is The Best, Jon Sims FINALLY gets a fucking hug, Let Jon Speak Please!!!!!!!!, Post MAG 132, Section 31, There's no tag for this but Joan is the hero we all need, Trauma, Undeserved (self imposed) blame, You Need Fucking Therapy Jon!!!!, canon-typical disaster Jon Sims, discussions of trauma, this is NOT a happy fic but it IS cathartic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 19:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: Jon is dull and worn and scarred and all-seeing. He walks into Dr Bright's office a second time, and somewhere, of its own accord, a tape recorder clicks on.or, MAG 132 means that everyone needs therapy.





	haunt

**Author's Note:**

> heLLO! if you thought you'd seen the last of jon-in-therapy, you were wrong! he..... god. jon. let's just say he needs it.
> 
> as a quick disclaimer, this fic is definitely a work of healing - but it does involve some blatant discussion of the unhealthy attitudes Jon holds towards himself. if that turns you off, it's no worry at all. mental health is important (which is basically the point of this, lol).
> 
> with that said, please enjoy!

The monster falls asleep outside. Accusing eyes hide in the stars. Where do monsters go to die? Dying isn’t very hard.

That’s not the way the rhyme goes. 

The monster falls asleep in bed. The walls begin to close. The monster cannot trust his head, and everybody but him knows. 

That’s not the rhyme either, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. The Vast. The End. The Buried. The Spiral. The rhyme that unravels in Jon’s mind isn’t real, and it doesn’t matter.

The monster falls asleep at night. The spider weaves a thread. The creatures gorge themselves on light. The tapestry turns dark and red-

“Jon?” 

The monster looks across the gaping chasm of Dr Bright’s office, to where the small woman sits expectantly in an armchair. The monster doesn’t look her in the eyes. The lights are too bright for that. 

“Jon, I’m glad to see you here again -” Dr Bright begins, but the monster cuts her off.

“No, you’re not.” 

And he’s right, of course. 

The monster falls asleep alone. His eyes are wide and open. The monster doesn’t have a home. The monster has stopped hoping. 

“Can I sit next to you, Jon?” Dr Bright asks, and the monster nods. Maybe he should say no. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Surely Dr Bright is in danger now, and he put her there.

The monster can still taste dirt on his tongue, can feel it caked under his fingernail. He picks at it. He didn’t bring a recorder to this appointment, but he knows one is running. He knows where it is. He knows that he will pick it up when he leaves. 

“May I touch you?” she asks, and the monster nods again. He expects her to take his hand or touch his arm, to keep herself safe while going through the appropriate motions of comfort. He can then remember the warmth of it for the next few days as the Institute keeps their eyes and their hands to themselves. The monster is oil, and his colleagues are water. He has learned not to question it.

Dr Bright hugs him, and Jon gasps.

It’s nothing special. It’s just a hug. Dr Bright hugged her brother this morning, and she hugged Sam yesterday, and she hugged Caleb when he went off to university with tears in her eyes. Dr Bright isn’t touchy, but she knows how to hug. Jon is swept off his feet with knowledge, treading water, and he chokes on it audibly as the door in his mind slams shut again. He is awash with guilt, as suffocating as the coffin he has just escaped, and Dr Bright still has her arms around him.

Jon feels shame rise in his throat and he knows he doesn’t deserve this. He tries to push away, but the effort is feeble, and Dr Bright only tightens her embrace in response. Despite himself Jon’s cheek is buried in her shoulder as one of her hands cradles the back of his head the way one would hold a child, and Jon -

Jon is crying. Jon can’t breathe for the sobs that strangle him, and already there are tears streaming down his scarred cheeks. The weight on his chest is heavier than ever, pressing down into his lungs, and he remembers in perfect detail the feeling of dying. He recalls the snapping of his bones and the grit in his teeth. He knows the feel of damp soil in his eyes and a constantly narrowing tunnel, and Jon’s own sobs have joined forces with the Buried to cut off his access to air.

But what Jon doesn’t remember is the last time he was hugged. Jon doesn’t remember the last time he was touched by anything aside from a weapon. Even in such close quarters, even when Daisy gave Jon her soul, she didn’t touch him until she had to. It’s easy to suppose that maybe she was just sick and tired of being surrounded, but Jon is long past improbable rationalisations. He knows why.

He always knows why.

“I-I-I — I’m sorry,” Jon manages instinctively, once his vocal cords work again. This is what finally makes Dr Bright pull away to look at him, concern writ large across her open face. It’s unadulterated and without fear, which somehow makes Jon feel even worse. 

She keeps one steadying hand on his arm, her thumb sweeping back and forth in an even rhythm. It helps, despite everything, and Jon wonders how she knows to do this. He’s not sure anyone has done it for him before. “You have nothing to apologise for,” says Dr Bright, and hatred burns so fiercely in Jon’s throat he tastes bile. 

And the monster says, “But I killed them.” 

“Jon—” Dr Bright begins, but her comfort has no bearing anymore.

“I  _ killed  _ them,” Jon repeats. His voice is raw, ragged, fraying and crackling and broken, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I- _ I  _ did that, Dr Bright, and I — I deserved be down there. I deserved to  _ stay  _ down there, I— I killed Sasha! I killed Sasha and I didn’t  _ notice,  _ and it is my job to  _ know things!”  _

Dr Bright clasps one of Jon’s hands in hers and the breath he takes is sloppy, like he’s forgotten how. “Jon, I understand that you’ve been through multiple traumatic experiences in the past three years,” she says gently. “And it’s normal to have feelings of survivor’s guilt resulting from post-traumatic stress. I know it’s awful, and I want to help. I can only ask that you stop using such negative language towards yourself in recounting these stories. From what I understand, you’ve helped a great many people, most recently Detective Tonner-”

“I killed them,” Jon says again, blinking too quickly, body too still. “Sasha. T-Tim. I-” Jon bows his head in shame and guilt and presses a shaking hand against his cheek, wiping away the tears that will not stop falling. “I killed them. As surely as if I’d pulled the trigger, if—” He lets out a bleak and mirthless noise that could once have passed for a laugh. “If it were my hand on the detonator.” 

“Can you explain to me why you believe this is your fault?” Dr Bright asks after a pause, giving Jon’s hand a comforting squeeze. She’s switched tactics. She’s not sure Jon knows how to relay these stories without blaming himself. 

Instead of answering, though, Jon stalls, his unblinking eyes sweeping from the wall to where Dr Bright’s hand covers his and back again. “Why are you- why are you still touching me?” he asks, and dreads the answer. “Y-you shouldn’t, I —it’s dangerous, I’m… dangerous.” 

“I’m no newcomer to danger,” says Dr Bright with a reassuring smile. “And you looked like you could use a friend.”

Jon stares. He’s suddenly angry for no reason at all - at himself, at Dr Bright, at the Beholding - but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t shrink back. He doesn’t even speak. He doesn’t want to give Dr Bright a reason to pull away. 

“Jon?” 

“Sorry,” Jon says on reflex, sniffling once and looking at the ground. “God, I—”

“It’s okay,” Dr Bright replies, her brows still knit together with worry. “Would you mind explaining to me why these things are your fault?”

That acrid splash of guilt poisons Jon’s sinuses, searing across his cheeks, his nose, his throat. “I didn’t do my job,” he says stiffly, lips pressed tight. “I failed, and there were consequences. Consequences that  _ hurt  _ people.” 

“Is that why you went alone?” Dr Bright asks softly, and the words are so gentle but they feel like barbs against Jon’s skin. “During your rescue of Detective Tonner?”

There’s a pause. Jon’s jaw works. “Yes,” he says finally. “I— I couldn’t risk anyone. I—”

“You risked yourself,” says Dr Bright. “You risked your life. You’re still quite injured from your encounter, Jon—”

“It’s nothing. They barely scarred.” 

“They scarred?” Dr Bright asks, concerned. “Jon, that’s-”

For the first time he smiles, but there’s nothing behind the eyes. It’s wan and flat and tragic, and Jon says, “Don’t worry. I’ve got something of a collection.”

Dr Bright knows the scars well. She remembers categorising them the first time Jon came to see her: the rings that look like a past disease, the burn in the shape of a handshake, the stab wound that pokes out his shirt collar. Jon’s skin is still mottled with bruises, with scrapes, with scabs, with fresh scars. “That’s… definitely concerning. I won’t lie. Jon, your attitude towards your body is worrying to me, and—”

“Daisy wanted to kill me,” Jon blurts, and deflates. Dr Bright enough is shocked enough to pull back at this, and for just a moment her professional calm drops. She sees Mark, forlorn and threatened, in front of her, and in this moment she’s not a doctor. She’s a sister. Jon’s fingers twitch as if to take Dr Bright’s hand again, but he decides against it. The gaping hole that resides in his chest has re-opened, so he almost feels himself again.

“She… what?”

“She— she had reason,” Jon says defensively, as if he is the one at fault. “I was a - I  _ am  _ a threat, I’m inhuman, I —she knew that once we stopped the Unknowing, I needed to—”

“Don’t,” Dr Bright warns, soft and dangerous. “Jon, you did not -  _ do not  _ \- need to be killed. Your worth is not tied to stopping rituals.”

“But I am, partly, I— I should be good at what I do, and I failed,” Jon says, twisting his fingers. “I failed Sasha, and I failed T—I—I failed Tim the same way, and I failed Daisy, and I’m failing Martin  _ right now,  _ as we speak, and I— I’m not even good at doing  _ this,  _ here, I’m— I’m  _ bad  _ at being in therapy, which is ridiculous, but—”

“Jon, I’m going to stop you there,” Dr Bright cuts in firmly. “I asked you earlier to stop speaking about yourself so negatively. I’m going to ask you to do so once again, because these are severely detrimental words. There is a more objective way to frame these events that  _ doesn’t  _ place you in the role of its antagonist, and while I’m not asking you to paint yourself as a hero, I’m requesting that you stop making yourself out to be the villain.”

Then she smiles. “And you’re not ‘bad’ at being in therapy,” she continues, voice warm. “It might not make you feel good right now, but you’re working through a lot. Progress takes time. I’m going to be here as long as you’ll have me. It’s your choice, but I am offering to be here every step of the way.”

Dr Bright clears her throat and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s fallen out of the bun at the top of her head, black and silky. “Jon, I’ve read the files that both the Magnus Institute and the sectioned officers sent to me. I know what I need to about your experiences in the past few years. They were not your fault, and Daisy did not have an excuse for planning to kill you.”

“But—” Jon begins, and Dr Bright levels him with a teacherly stare. Jon sighs. “But I - I’m  _ like  _ one of those things that attacked the Institute. I’m the same as them. I d— I deserved whatever Daisy was planning, because…” Jon trails off.

The monster falls asleep in pieces. The monster’s flesh is rot. The voyeur is the passive ceiling, and the monster’s being watched.

“...because you believe you’re a monster,” Dr Bright finishes, her gaze intent.

“An  _ avatar,” _ Jon says, gritting his teeth and avoiding eye contact. “Yes.”

“And why do you believe that?” she asks. It’s even and slow and logical and Jon wants to rail against it, to scream, to encounter any sort of resistance. Jon works better when he’s fighting someone, because at least when they’re trying to kill him he understands the goal of the encounter.

“Because— because it’s  _ true,”  _ Jon says, frustration bleeding into his tone again. “It’s— it’s a plain fact. The sky is blue. There are twenty-four hours in a day. I am a monster.”

Dr Bright remains nonplussed. “The sky is blue because of light reflecting around the atmosphere,” she counters without judgement. “There are twenty-four hours in a day because that’s how long it takes the earth to revolve once on its axis. Everything has an explanation, Jon, even after you’ve accepted it to be true.” She regards him for a long time, both comforting and scrutinising. “When I look at you,” she says, “I don’t see a monster. I never will.”

“But you should, I - I  _ died,”  _ says Jon, speaking faster now, his hands growing agitated, “And this? This is not a second chance, I —a friend of mine made that  _ abundantly  _ clear.” He’s thinking of Georgie and her disappointment and how she was right all along. She usually is. 

_ “This  _ is unnatural,” he continues before Dr Bright can stop him. “I am not a  _ person  _ anymore.  _ People  _ do not wake up from six-month comas with nothing wrong.  _ People  _ do not know what you’re afraid of just by looking in your direction.  _ People  _ don’t have to worry about their existence being— being a walking violation of ethics, I— I am  _ unnatural,  _ and wrong, and beholden to some— some fear god, and it’s in my  _ head,  _ Dr Bright, and I —I couldn’t protect any of them, I— I should be  _ dead— _ ” and his voice splinters into too many sorry pieces, and smashes at Jon’s feet like the glittering remnants of an expensive vase.

Jon laces his fingers together and leans forward, his elbows pressed against his knees, his shoulders hunched. When he speaks again, it’s eerily quiet. “I killed them. And I should be dead, too.”

The monster falls asleep, and he is not himself. The monster courts the darkest deep, and nobody can help.

“Jon,” says Dr Bright, and she pulls him out of the ocean. “Jon, look at me.”

Jon - despite himself, despite everything - looks up.

“And listen to me,” Dr Bright continues, reaching out again to cover Jon’s hands with both of her own. “You’re not a monster, Jon. You have never been a monster. You’re just as susceptible to being evil as anyone else - powered or no. It’s your decisions that count, Jon, your choices, and when I look at you, I see a man trying his best to make the choices that save as many people as possible. Unless that person is yourself.”

“But-”

“Haven’t you ever thought about the fact that you’re just as worthy of saving?” Dr Bright asks, calm, cool, clear. “Haven’t you ever thought about the fact that  _ you  _ are an innocent person targeted by entities beyond your understanding or control? Have you taken the time to consider that you do not need to bear everyone’s conscience on your own, even if it might feel like you have to? You’re  _ not _ a monster, Jon. You may not be fully human, or even human at all, but you’re not a monster.”

Once again she squeezes his hand hard, that grounding comfort. “The fact that you’re so hyper-aware of your abilities, and try to do your best not to harm people — that’s not something a monster would do. That is the action of a kind person, a good person. You are not your patron.  _ That’s  _ what’s clear to me about you, Jon. That you’ve been through a lot, and that you’re still afloat. You’re still doing your best. I’m here to remind you to keep on kicking.” 

Jon doesn’t think anyone has told him that before.

He should thank her. He should say something. He should respond in any sort of way that shows he appreciates what she’s said, what she’s done. 

_ “Oh,” _ Jon chokes out instead, his throat almost completely closed. 

Dr Bright looks at him like she believes in him, so Jon shuts his eyes and feels fresh tears slide down sticky cheeks, catching in the ridges of honeycomb scars.

_ Oh.  _

“If you’re overwhelmed,” Dr Bright says, aptly timed, “we can take a break. You can collect your thoughts, and we can finish the last twenty minutes of the session. Is that okay?”

“I- yes. I, ah…” Jon sniffles and pushes up his glasses. “Yes. Please. Can I… Christ. Do you mind if I go for a smoke?” He’s already fiddling with the packet in his pocket, and Dr Bright’s mouth is a not-angry-just-disappointed line.

“Outside,” she says, and Jon’s hands still. “But yes. Come back in when you’re done.” 

Jon nods, then stands, walking hesitantly towards the door. “I am going to remind you, though,” Dr Bright continues, “that cigarettes are incredibly damaging to the body, and I’m already concerned about the way you take care of yourself and the lack thereof.”

“Don’t worry, Dr Bright,” Jon says, smiling that same flat smile as before. It’s sadder now, if that’s possible. “I… I’ve recently learned that I can’t do myself any physical harm, so.” His hand returns to his pocket. “There shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Excuse me?” Dr Bright stands now, too, her senses on high alert. Jon reaches for the doorknob, then stops. His hand is shaking. “Jon, what haven’t you told me? Are you--”

“Will you come with me?” Jon asks, and there’s a tremor in his voice, too. His eyes sweep around the office and they see a different time, a different place, a different person in Dr Bright’s place.  

“Will I… what?”

“I— just- the last time, I—” He blinks a few times, then clears his throat. “It’s silly. Paranoia. But if you—”

“Of course,” says Dr Bright. Jon is a  _ mess -  _ tearstained and rumpled, wearing an old graphic t-shirt that looks too big for him - and she doesn’t know how she could deny him that security. “Of course, Jon, come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Dr Bright takes him by the arm and shows him the bathroom and Jon does smoke, outside, and talks about the first special interest he ever had. It was dragons, which he’d become enamoured with after finding a story in his grandmother’s pile of consignment books. The afternoon sun is nice, if not necessarily warm, and for a moment they can pretend that everything’s okay.

Somewhere in Dr Bright’s office, a tape recorder shuts itself off.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! comments and kudos never fail to fuel me ;) and I would be much obliged if you'd let me know some of your thoughts! I'm also over on Tumblr @thoughtsbubble for extended conversation (or if you want a look through my blog) and I'm always down to chat about TMA!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] haunt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20956637) by [GoLBPodfics (GodOfLaundryBaskets)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfLaundryBaskets/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)




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